Well, I decided 40 hours spent in Walgreens pharmacy really sucked ass and I deserved a bit of a weekend holiday. What better way to celebrate than to travel back to the land of my college years for some good old fashioned fun? Yes, welcome to Nordicfest 2008.
I do really wish the citizens of Decorah would be honest with themselves though. They claim that it's a festival celebrating nordic heritage. That's a bold faced lie. It's a celebration of Norwegian heritage. Nothing more. They try to placate the four other Scandinavian countries by hanging probably a total of 5 or 6 flags around town. Which are readily dwarved by the Norwegian flags on every lightpost. Sweden is sort of like that girl that you used to like in high school, but don't think of much anymore. And Denmark, Iceland, and Finland just get shat upon. Which is really a shame. I think it should just be called Norwayfest. Much less risk there, and you can just dispense with those other four intruders. I hope they give those 5 Finnish flags to me though.
I swear, Nordicfest is one of the strangest social situations in the entire country. Here you have a town completely obsessed with its Norwegian heritage, enough to fly Norwegian flags in front of houses and businesses, enough for seemingly half the town to bust out their traditional costumes, enough for parents to hold their children back school grades so they have the prestigious opportunity to become a "Nordic Dancer." Contrast that with the legions of Luther students and alums who draw to Decorah like moths to a flame, desperate for a chance to relive their glory days in the midst of summer. Meaning, drink a lot and do stupid college shit. Then there's what seems like an army of be-slutted high school students who feel entitled to dress like strippers and parade up and down Water Street. I particularly liked the girl in the tight black "Sinful" shirt. I'm just, well, confused. It's like three separate forces converge in Decorah for these three days, the old and historically obsessed, the young and stupid, and the younger and sluttier.
Of course, I fit right in with my group of "young and stupid." There was plenty of fun to be had, for sure. And it legitimately was nice to see some old friends and have that experience of being in Decorah with them again. Visiting our local haunts, doing our usual things, talking about common interests, all that jazz. I've never seen money fly so quickly out of my wallet though. That was somewhat unnerving, spending the budget for a week in a matter of 36 hours, but eh. What's money anyways? I don't want to be controlled by it.
My friend Benjamin and I decided to play a round of frisbee golf at Luther, and to have a bit of a walk about campus. This was something I had dreaded as I drove the familiar road on Friday night. I never wanted to be one of those people overly nostalgic for their college years, for their college. Maybe I thought it a sort of weakness, who knows. But the truth is, I think I might be one of those people. And my friends too. It was odd, walking around Luther, the routes I've walked hundreds of times before. But now, it's no longer our campus in the way it used to be. And that was a very strange, somewhat saddening prospect. I suppose it's always sad to leave a place you've loved. Hell, I should know that by now.
I think the most frightening aspect, for myself, is starting anew at a new college. I guess I'm afraid that Luther will lose its meaning. I don't want it to, I don't want it usurped by a place I'm going to learn a trade. That's really the difference. I went to Luther to gain knowledge, to learn about myself, to buy into all that propaganda they always told us about combining faith and learning. Now I'm going to learn a skill, to figure out how to do a job. Hamline, although I'm happy to attend, can never be what Luther was. The campus is a shithole, I'm not living there, there won't be the same variety of classes or extracurriculars, it's a place to learn the law. Fundamentally, everything is different. I don't want to be cynical, but maybe I am. Maybe I'm just scared shitless. Or maybe I'm just sad to be away from Luther, away from friends, away from so many things.
Anyways, it was a fun weekend though, even with the dash of melancholy. I got to play my trombone, which was quite fun. Just got to escape for a while. And it was good.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Album of the Week: Buena Vista Social Club
This week's album is Buena Vista Social Club (BVSC). Now, this is a relatively short recommendation because, truth be told, I haven't even listened to the whole thing yet. I picked it up from the used world rack at the Electric Fetus just last night. But just listening to the first track, "Chan Chan," I know this is something special and to be recommended.
One mark of quality music I feel, is the ability for it to instantly transport the listener into a completely different frame of existence. If you listen to say, the Newport recording of "Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue," you can't help but be transported back to 1956, clapping and stomping along with the tenor sax solo. You listen to the first track on BVSC, and instantly you feel like you are in Havana. The group, which is composed of aged Cuban maestros who were active in the 1930's-50's, plays with such sheer joy. For those of you who wonder how I know so much about a group who I just learned about yesterday, I reply with one word. Wikipedia.
I'd really be surprised if these people cared about getting paid, or anything traditionally associated with cutting a record. Apparently they just collected what is essentially a Cuban music all-star team, set them up in a recording studio straight out of 1950, and just let them loose. It's an incredible effect. You get the feeling that the musicians would more likely be paying just to play their music, such is the devotion to the art. There is no pretentiousness here, no selfishness or pomposity. I suppose it's hard to be selfish and pompous when you're 90 years old and really don't give a shit about anything except playing the piano. It's a creation of a whole, similar to Captain Planet when all the rings come together.
Additionally, I think this is a great way to get into some Afro-Cuban music without getting bombasted by the more common latin jazz. Not saying that music is bad, but this stuff is like, the essence of what people think when they think of Havana. It makes you crave a cigar and a cerveza in a run down cafe.
This was a shitty review, but no matter. Buena Vista Social Club = highly recommended = go out and listen.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
I'm calling you out, Mall of America
I went biking tonight for the first time this summer. Good time, I must say. There really is nothing like the sight of oneself in Lycra to boost self-esteem. I really don't understand why more people don't wear Lycra more often.
I was at the mall the other day, which is always an interesting experience. The Mall of America, as well as being a shrine to capitalism, really is a gigantic teenage mating ritual. I'm happy to say I spent little time at the mall in my formative years. I was mostly at hockey pep band. But anyways, I likened this mall mating to a custom I observed last year in Italy. In many Mediterranean cultures, it's a tradition to dress up and walk with your significant other on a promenade in the city during the evening, mostly on the weekends. I forget what the exact term is, but you basically just walk and show off your woman and your status. That's really what the Mall of America is. It's a giant promenade, except the status symbols are Abercrombie and Hollister, and instead of a city walk, it's a never-ending quest to increase one's status (i.e., buy stuff). Like how pilgrims have to make 7 perambulations around the Kaaba in Mecca, there must be some general rule on how many times high school/college/young hip adult couples must circumnavigate the Mall of America's three tiers.
Maybe I'm just a complete and utter loser, but I fail to see how current American pop culture motivates people. I was discussing with a friend this week, how the fuck did Paris Hilton get into a position of emulation in our society? Here's a person who doesn't have a real job, doesn't embody any "traditional" American values of hard work, pulling oneself up by the bootstraps, etc, etc, etc. Is really only notable for inheriting a bunch of money, making a sex tape, doing stupid shit, and getting put in jail for a DWI. Why do people care what comes of her? I really don't understand. Is that what we as a people aspire to?
Going back to the mall, I find the store Urban Outfitters to be pretty fascinating. Now I'm not hating on it, I think they have cool stuff. I liked the shirt with the picture of the fist and the words "Obama told me to knock you out." And one with a bunch of automatic weapons and a guitar that said music is the weapon of the future. But basically it's trying to sell products that scream an alternative lifestyle to the one proposed by Abercrombie, etc. Retro stuff, shit that looks like it came from my dad's closet, music stuff, "edgy" gifts, yada, yada, yada. In all honesty, I like a lot of it. But everything costs the same as everywhere else, being insanely expensive. To me, excessive expense on clothing doesn't typically conform to what I view as the current subculture. I don't know, I guess most of the people I knew who actually dressed in that subcultury-grungy-alternative way bought most of their stuff from thrift shops and places like that. The whole point of dressing the way they did was to reject the social quota set up by the big name brands and the cookie cutter MTV social ideal that went along with it. Doesn't it seem somewhat strange then, that there's a whole section of the subculture that prizes this sort of disheveled, artsy, "independent" fashion, but yet its being marketed in a way that seems antithetical to its very ideals? I'm really quite confused. Basically, I think Urban Outfitters is a great store, but it should at least be honest with itself. It shouldn't try to market itself as this badass alternative to the other youth brands. It's exactly the same, caters to exactly the same entitled suburban kids as they perambulate. An expensive way to possibly mask one's own lack of imaginative fashion and give the appearance of Independent Thinking.
I'm really not one to speak much about fashion. My own fashion sense is self-admittedly slim, but hopefully adequate. I do like to look nice when needed, and in general, I'd hope my appearance comes off as passable and somewhat unique. One thing I've never quite understood is this need for brands. Well, scratch that, I did in middle school. Thankfully, I was lucky enough to break out of that. Now, this is not a rant against name brand clothing. I have a bunch of clothes from Gap, which is pretty name-brandy. I just object to people who define themselves by what brands they wear. People so obsessed with this shitty ass pop culture that dictates what you should be like by the make of your threads. Why, in this land that loves to emphasize its "freedom" are people enslaving themselves by an unreal pop culture? I'm just very confused. People who want to come across as independent shouldn't feel obligated to buy from Urban Outfitters or Ragstock, or Goodwill or whatever. They should just do what they believe and what feels right. If that means dropping $46 on a shirt, good for you. Or if that means raiding my dad's closet, sweet. Just make sure it's your decision.
For me, I think I'm going to stick with the power trio of blue, brown, and black.
But anyways, speaking of entitled, status obsessed suburban adolescents, I'm fairly certain I'm going to purchase an iPhone. I actually think I'll productively use it, especially once school starts.
But to re-convince you all (and myself) that I'm not one of the guys molesting their girlfriends at the Mall of America while simultaneously videoing it and sending it to their bros on their iPhone, I've been listening to a lot of Metallica lately. And you know, it's surprisingly good. I've never liked heavy metal, but some of this is actually quite good songwriting, I feel. And some of the songs are really catchy. Sometimes when you get real angry or frustrated, there's nothing like some thrashing guitars to help empathize.
I must work a lot this week, which blows. But I guess that's the only way to purchase an iPhone, and the amount of alternative thrash metal to counteract it. On a quick endnote, I love it when the Twins score thousands of runs at games I go to. You're almost assured of victory, and if they should fall, it would be such a monumental collapse it'd be worth seeing. Delmon Young must also have been listening to a lot of Metallica lately. Either that or he just has a lot of angst, for that home run was monumental. He hit a moonshot to center field that nearly broke the earth's gravitational pull. Pretty intense.
I was at the mall the other day, which is always an interesting experience. The Mall of America, as well as being a shrine to capitalism, really is a gigantic teenage mating ritual. I'm happy to say I spent little time at the mall in my formative years. I was mostly at hockey pep band. But anyways, I likened this mall mating to a custom I observed last year in Italy. In many Mediterranean cultures, it's a tradition to dress up and walk with your significant other on a promenade in the city during the evening, mostly on the weekends. I forget what the exact term is, but you basically just walk and show off your woman and your status. That's really what the Mall of America is. It's a giant promenade, except the status symbols are Abercrombie and Hollister, and instead of a city walk, it's a never-ending quest to increase one's status (i.e., buy stuff). Like how pilgrims have to make 7 perambulations around the Kaaba in Mecca, there must be some general rule on how many times high school/college/young hip adult couples must circumnavigate the Mall of America's three tiers.
Maybe I'm just a complete and utter loser, but I fail to see how current American pop culture motivates people. I was discussing with a friend this week, how the fuck did Paris Hilton get into a position of emulation in our society? Here's a person who doesn't have a real job, doesn't embody any "traditional" American values of hard work, pulling oneself up by the bootstraps, etc, etc, etc. Is really only notable for inheriting a bunch of money, making a sex tape, doing stupid shit, and getting put in jail for a DWI. Why do people care what comes of her? I really don't understand. Is that what we as a people aspire to?
Going back to the mall, I find the store Urban Outfitters to be pretty fascinating. Now I'm not hating on it, I think they have cool stuff. I liked the shirt with the picture of the fist and the words "Obama told me to knock you out." And one with a bunch of automatic weapons and a guitar that said music is the weapon of the future. But basically it's trying to sell products that scream an alternative lifestyle to the one proposed by Abercrombie, etc. Retro stuff, shit that looks like it came from my dad's closet, music stuff, "edgy" gifts, yada, yada, yada. In all honesty, I like a lot of it. But everything costs the same as everywhere else, being insanely expensive. To me, excessive expense on clothing doesn't typically conform to what I view as the current subculture. I don't know, I guess most of the people I knew who actually dressed in that subcultury-grungy-alternative way bought most of their stuff from thrift shops and places like that. The whole point of dressing the way they did was to reject the social quota set up by the big name brands and the cookie cutter MTV social ideal that went along with it. Doesn't it seem somewhat strange then, that there's a whole section of the subculture that prizes this sort of disheveled, artsy, "independent" fashion, but yet its being marketed in a way that seems antithetical to its very ideals? I'm really quite confused. Basically, I think Urban Outfitters is a great store, but it should at least be honest with itself. It shouldn't try to market itself as this badass alternative to the other youth brands. It's exactly the same, caters to exactly the same entitled suburban kids as they perambulate. An expensive way to possibly mask one's own lack of imaginative fashion and give the appearance of Independent Thinking.
I'm really not one to speak much about fashion. My own fashion sense is self-admittedly slim, but hopefully adequate. I do like to look nice when needed, and in general, I'd hope my appearance comes off as passable and somewhat unique. One thing I've never quite understood is this need for brands. Well, scratch that, I did in middle school. Thankfully, I was lucky enough to break out of that. Now, this is not a rant against name brand clothing. I have a bunch of clothes from Gap, which is pretty name-brandy. I just object to people who define themselves by what brands they wear. People so obsessed with this shitty ass pop culture that dictates what you should be like by the make of your threads. Why, in this land that loves to emphasize its "freedom" are people enslaving themselves by an unreal pop culture? I'm just very confused. People who want to come across as independent shouldn't feel obligated to buy from Urban Outfitters or Ragstock, or Goodwill or whatever. They should just do what they believe and what feels right. If that means dropping $46 on a shirt, good for you. Or if that means raiding my dad's closet, sweet. Just make sure it's your decision.
For me, I think I'm going to stick with the power trio of blue, brown, and black.
But anyways, speaking of entitled, status obsessed suburban adolescents, I'm fairly certain I'm going to purchase an iPhone. I actually think I'll productively use it, especially once school starts.
But to re-convince you all (and myself) that I'm not one of the guys molesting their girlfriends at the Mall of America while simultaneously videoing it and sending it to their bros on their iPhone, I've been listening to a lot of Metallica lately. And you know, it's surprisingly good. I've never liked heavy metal, but some of this is actually quite good songwriting, I feel. And some of the songs are really catchy. Sometimes when you get real angry or frustrated, there's nothing like some thrashing guitars to help empathize.
I must work a lot this week, which blows. But I guess that's the only way to purchase an iPhone, and the amount of alternative thrash metal to counteract it. On a quick endnote, I love it when the Twins score thousands of runs at games I go to. You're almost assured of victory, and if they should fall, it would be such a monumental collapse it'd be worth seeing. Delmon Young must also have been listening to a lot of Metallica lately. Either that or he just has a lot of angst, for that home run was monumental. He hit a moonshot to center field that nearly broke the earth's gravitational pull. Pretty intense.
Friday, July 18, 2008
My Midnight Movie Fun!
Don't have much time, have to go be the Walgreens bitch for 8 hours. But last night, I went with 500 of my closest friends to go see "The Dark Knight" at midnight in Eagan. It's not typically a habit of mine to go see movies at midnight. Hell, it's not really a habit of mine to go see movies in general. But this one seemed to warrant the $18.75 price of admission.
It was somewhat comforted, being surrounded by "fanboys" once again. Oh yes, once in the dark corners of my life, I was a fanboy. I know who these people are, because I was once one of them. And if anyone dare question my street cred, I point to the Jedi robe in my closet. I also held a Batman themed birthday party in 2nd grade. So waiting in the theatre before the movie to start was sort of like a weird trip down memory lane. There was the usual assortment of high school age bros and their girlfriends, the creepy old men with nothing else to do, and the fanboys. Legions of socially awkward clusters, many of them overweight or underweight, many in various stages of hair loss and/or hair disasters (see author). None of them with women, naturally (see author). A lot of Batman shirts that looked like they got stolen from Goodwill. I was proud to say I wore my "Western Wisconsin Day of Trombone" shirt instead. The necessary industrial tubs of popcorn and pop, the lifeblood of any true fanboy. Frankly, it was pretty hilarious. But for some reason, nothing brings out irrational enjoyment like a midnight showing of a comic book movie. You can forget just how ridiculous the situation is, the fact that you're dressed like your mom picked out your clothes, the fact that there's a very good chance your life is headed nowhere, and just enjoy the film.
Except this movie was not a comic book movie. It's far too sophisticated for that.
I would rate "The Dark Knight" as surely the best movie I've seen this year (out of 3). But what sets it apart, is the fact that this truly is not the run of the mill comic book movie, like Spider-Man or Superman. It is a genuine crime thriller/mystery. Acted brilliantly, supremely crafted, it's a film for people who love complex ideas and emotional struggle. The late Heath Ledger anchors the cast as the Joker. His performance is most aptly described as fucked up. Ridiculously creepy, scarily psychotic, yet also uncomfortably intelligent, he inhabits the role of the Joker. He plays him with the seriousness of a stage actor, and it shows. Absolutely brilliant. Christian Bale is once again superb as Batman/Bruce Wayne as well, but the Joker really does steal his thunder. I wish they would have given Bruce Wayne some more scenes. One cool thing is that you very rarely get a good glimpse of Batman. He stays in the shadows most of the time, which helps put the emphasis away from the ass-kicking and on to the drama. Fear not though, all you testosterone fueled men (and women), there is plenty of ass-kicking to be had.
Freaky, right?
Shit, I have to go to work. I'd highly recommend seeing this film. See it on IMAX if you can, I heard it's even better. And if possible, make sure you go see it with a bunch of fanboys. As long as you're not like me, you'll probably feel better about yourself and have an interesting sociological observation in the process.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Album of the Week: Med Sud I Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust
You all knew I was going to review this album, right? Anyways, this week's album is Med Sud I Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust by the Icelandic band Sigur Rós.
Just a disclaimer, for all the purists out there. To actually correctly type out most of the song titles and album title, would have led me on a futile search through my keyboard's Icelandic function keys. I elected to just anglicize all titles strictly for ease of production.
I would classify this album as a must for all those of you out there into Icelandic art-rock. And for the rest, I'd highly recommend it. I was a little nervous, I must admit, when I heard that the band went in a bit of a new direction on this release. One of my favourite aspects of Sigur Rós has been their sonic experimentation with electronic aspects of music not typically considered "musical." I'm a big fan of the bowed electric guitar. Needless to say, when I heard a lot of the stuff on this new album was acoustic, I was somewhat concerned. When I think Sigur Rós, I think crazy out there electric rock shit, not the Icelandic John Mayer or something similar. Mainly, I was worried they would sacrifice the art of their music and their sound to become more mainstream.
It turns out my fears have fallen by the wayside in the same manner as the Detroit Tigers. What is so great about this particular album is the fact that the band does go in a slightly different direction, but still retains their essence. No, there's not quite so much esosteric crazy out there shit. Yes, it's a bit more mainstream. But nothing is sacrificed in the process. Instead, almost all of the tracks are a very fascinating hybrid of old and new styles. Like a Prius.
Back on the subject matter, I love the acoustic-ness and the rhythm of the first track. It kind of sounds like the bastard child of a Bible camp guitarist and a tribal percussionist from New Guinea or somewhere. I like it though, judging by this song, they would probably make beautiful children. I'd also highly recommend tracks number 2, 5, and 7. Number 7 I listened to as I drove back from someone's going away party, fairly late at night last weekend. And honestly, I got chills in the car. It's got an intense climax with a full orchestra and a group of English choristers. . I was freaking out, for sure. Track number 2 (or maybe 3) I think is sweet because it's acoustic, but it also has bowed electric guitar going in the background, sort of as a texture device. Really intense.
In sum, I think I'd give this a 4.5 out of 5. Which is a completely arbitrary rating.
I think Takk is going to remain my favourite Sigur Rós album, but Med Sud I Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust might well come in at number two. I'm really digging it so far. I'd say it's a bit more accessible than some of their previous work, and might function as a good introductory album. So excited to go see them in concert in a few months.
I recommend = go out and purchase.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Not a Sitter
One week is a long time to spend in one isolated space, even with the privilege of a rental car. This was illuminated to me last night, when on impulse, I popped in a commemorative DVD of my year spent in Nottingham. I was bored, it was late, I didn't feel like watching another 400 episodes of "The Deadliest Catch" on the Discovery Channel, and I figured it would be pleasant to reminisce.
It was quite odd to juxtapose the happy, worldly being in the stocking cap and blue windbreaker in the film to the dude lazing about on a pullout bed in Arizona. Not to say I'm unhappy in Arizona, but it was slightly different circumstances than walking through the Austrian countryside looking for an obscure B&B. It's definitely been a challenge for me, to temper my adventurous streak with the reality of my situation in Sedona. But assuredly, it hasn't been bad by any means. The happy benefit of having an automobile is the ability to do where I please on any whim I may have. But also, it's been nice to chill out a bit and realize that there's more to travel than just always going, going, going. There is something pleasant about exploring everything about one place. But then again, as my mom once pointed out to me in Edinburgh, I'm not a sitter.
It'll be nice to be home tomorrow, for many reasons.
It was quite odd to juxtapose the happy, worldly being in the stocking cap and blue windbreaker in the film to the dude lazing about on a pullout bed in Arizona. Not to say I'm unhappy in Arizona, but it was slightly different circumstances than walking through the Austrian countryside looking for an obscure B&B. It's definitely been a challenge for me, to temper my adventurous streak with the reality of my situation in Sedona. But assuredly, it hasn't been bad by any means. The happy benefit of having an automobile is the ability to do where I please on any whim I may have. But also, it's been nice to chill out a bit and realize that there's more to travel than just always going, going, going. There is something pleasant about exploring everything about one place. But then again, as my mom once pointed out to me in Edinburgh, I'm not a sitter.
It'll be nice to be home tomorrow, for many reasons.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Grand Canyoning
I'm consistently mystified by the United States National Park Service. Namely, I'm puzzled by their curious choice of uniform. And by uniform, I mean the hat. I am truly convinced that being an NPS ranger is the only socially acceptable environment in which to wear a straight brimmed circular outdoorsman hat. They realy can't do anything fashionable with it, à la Indiana Jones. No cool tilt or adventurous cock. Nothing to make it interesting at all. Only a brim flat as Nebraska. Combine that with a shirt strangely reminiscent of a 1930's fascist movement, and you really have to wonder what the hell these people were thinking.
But then again, with a smile like that, how can you not want to turn in your sandals for hiking boots, your latte for my famous brewed coffee, the comforts of home for a tent and a sleeping bag, and experience America's natural beauty firsthand?
Well the other day, my mother and I trekked out to the Grand Canyon. Perhaps no other place captures the wildness of America than the Grand Canyon, I think. It speaks to that urge within so many of us for some sort of unspoken, indescribable freedom. If any of my vast readership has read "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac, that's what I mean. The urge to get in a car and just go, go experience the wondrous vastness of the American West.
The road to get to Flagstaff from Sedona, AZ 89A, is one of those spectacularly entertaining drives through the Oak Creek Canyon, only to ascend up the mountains at the end. The kind of road that clings precipitously to the sides of the hills. With many curves, best experienced by traveling at a high rate of speed. Really most suited to a Corvette or something. But a rented Dodge Avenger will do as well, though I (as the driver) found it endlessly more enjoyable than my mom, who remained white knuckled throughout, constantly imploring me to slow down. "I'm not even going the speed limit," I'd cheerfully reply, before roaring around another bend. Great times for me, she probably barfed out the window about six times.
After buying a park pass from who is surely the most beautiful ranger in the National Park Service (she was drop dead, stunningly, and exotically gorgeous, even with that ridiculous hat), we entered the park. Parked, walked through the woods, and entered into a dreamscape.
If any of you have not been to the Grand Canyon, I really can't recommend it enough. None of these photos remotely do it justice, at all really. Coming up to the lip of the canyon, I simply had to stare in wonder. Literally, I nearly couldn't believe my eyes. Ten miles wide, a mile deep, some two hundred miles long, the sheer size is indescribable. It was otherworldly, like some enormous being dragged a shovel through the earth. I tried to imagine coming across this in a wagon train, for the first time. You wouldn't even know what to think. Well, you'd probably think, "Shit."
One curiosity was the tremendous amount of foreign visitors, French and German mostly. Maybe it's because I'm so used to traveling to Europe to seek out the exotic, I don't typically comprehend Europeans coming here. Why would they come to America when there are so many treasures at home? Insulated in Minnesota, beautiful as it is, I'm unaware of the awesomeness of this country I guess. Standing on the lip of the rim, with French tourists agape with awe like myself, I couldn't help but feel just a bit proud. This spectacular vista, this most incredible creation of nature, this was in my country. And it's a beautiful thing to share with others. I really felt like slapping a Frenchman on the back, saying "bonjour" and offering him a Budweiser and a hot dog. As a welcome gift, like those leis they're always trying to throw at you in Honolulu.
In Progress Book Review- I'm reading "Neither Here nor There" by my best friend Bill Bryson, a travel book about his European wanderings. It's quite hilarious really, I'm enjoying it. The humour is a bit more risque, which I find puzzling, but uproarious. The one thing I miss is the emotional depth of "A Walk in the Woods" and "Notes from a Small Island," which I think is the true cement beneath the laughing. But nonetheless, a good book thus far, especially when you can relate to some of his stories.
But then again, with a smile like that, how can you not want to turn in your sandals for hiking boots, your latte for my famous brewed coffee, the comforts of home for a tent and a sleeping bag, and experience America's natural beauty firsthand?
Well the other day, my mother and I trekked out to the Grand Canyon. Perhaps no other place captures the wildness of America than the Grand Canyon, I think. It speaks to that urge within so many of us for some sort of unspoken, indescribable freedom. If any of my vast readership has read "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac, that's what I mean. The urge to get in a car and just go, go experience the wondrous vastness of the American West.
The road to get to Flagstaff from Sedona, AZ 89A, is one of those spectacularly entertaining drives through the Oak Creek Canyon, only to ascend up the mountains at the end. The kind of road that clings precipitously to the sides of the hills. With many curves, best experienced by traveling at a high rate of speed. Really most suited to a Corvette or something. But a rented Dodge Avenger will do as well, though I (as the driver) found it endlessly more enjoyable than my mom, who remained white knuckled throughout, constantly imploring me to slow down. "I'm not even going the speed limit," I'd cheerfully reply, before roaring around another bend. Great times for me, she probably barfed out the window about six times.
After buying a park pass from who is surely the most beautiful ranger in the National Park Service (she was drop dead, stunningly, and exotically gorgeous, even with that ridiculous hat), we entered the park. Parked, walked through the woods, and entered into a dreamscape.
If any of you have not been to the Grand Canyon, I really can't recommend it enough. None of these photos remotely do it justice, at all really. Coming up to the lip of the canyon, I simply had to stare in wonder. Literally, I nearly couldn't believe my eyes. Ten miles wide, a mile deep, some two hundred miles long, the sheer size is indescribable. It was otherworldly, like some enormous being dragged a shovel through the earth. I tried to imagine coming across this in a wagon train, for the first time. You wouldn't even know what to think. Well, you'd probably think, "Shit."
One curiosity was the tremendous amount of foreign visitors, French and German mostly. Maybe it's because I'm so used to traveling to Europe to seek out the exotic, I don't typically comprehend Europeans coming here. Why would they come to America when there are so many treasures at home? Insulated in Minnesota, beautiful as it is, I'm unaware of the awesomeness of this country I guess. Standing on the lip of the rim, with French tourists agape with awe like myself, I couldn't help but feel just a bit proud. This spectacular vista, this most incredible creation of nature, this was in my country. And it's a beautiful thing to share with others. I really felt like slapping a Frenchman on the back, saying "bonjour" and offering him a Budweiser and a hot dog. As a welcome gift, like those leis they're always trying to throw at you in Honolulu.
In Progress Book Review- I'm reading "Neither Here nor There" by my best friend Bill Bryson, a travel book about his European wanderings. It's quite hilarious really, I'm enjoying it. The humour is a bit more risque, which I find puzzling, but uproarious. The one thing I miss is the emotional depth of "A Walk in the Woods" and "Notes from a Small Island," which I think is the true cement beneath the laughing. But nonetheless, a good book thus far, especially when you can relate to some of his stories.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Sedona 101
Close acquaintances and fellow countrymen may be shocked to hear this, but I have officially procured a new pair of moccasins. I wish I could say that I found them after searching long and wide, but it was more like I stumbled across them in a cheap strip mall in Sedona. Minnetonka moccasins to boot. And on sale. I was pleased. Although, I must say, they're a departure from my standard footwear of the past 3 or so years. Instead of well worn brown suede, they appear to be black deerskin. Or just cowskin, who even knows. They're black, maybe sort of a pastel black. My mom was impressed with the fact that they matched my black Hawaiian shirt, which made me feel immediately and foolishly like a woman I encountered the other week in Minneapolis. This woman, I swear to God, had matched her sunglasses with her pants, the most hideous color of seafoam green the kindergartners at Crayola have ever developed. I mean, I cannot claim to be fashion acute (note the aforementioned Hawaiian shirt and moccasins), but it literally must have offended every single person she encountered. Either that, or it just provided excellent fodder for people who appreciate the art of people watching, simpletons as they are. Probably some pointless material for some worthless blog as well.
I'm officially in Sedona, Arizona, a land of bizarre rock formations and unrelenting desert heat. It's the sort of landscape where I look outside and half expect to see Wily E. Coyote chasing the roadrunner with an ACME rocket strapped to his ass. The land you envision yourself on when you take that great American road trip that you never seem to get around to. A land full of winding roads that snake through red rock canyons, an endless blue sky enfolding around you. Nothing but yourself, your Chevrolet, and the open road spreading into infinity, daring to tread upon nature's splendour. And if you're in Sedona, a maze of art galleries far beyond your budget, expensive eateries, tour companies, and the same sort of cheap t-shirt and souvenir shops you find in every American tourist destination. There has to be some sort of conglomerate that owns these places, selling shirts that say stuff like "The Man, The Legend," with arrows pointing up and down to correspond with the apparent truths. However, any establishment that sells beautiful, new, half priced Minnetonka moccasins is pretty alright in my book. To drop the cynicism of tourist culture though, this place is stunningly and quite unbelievably beautiful. It's my first time to the southwest, to this great American dreamland, and I am not disappointed.
I am not the sort of traveler used to having excessive downtime. In traveling Europe, I tended to exasperate a few of my companions, always needing to be on the move or going to see a new museum or monument. I remember silently judging a friend for what I deemed an unproductive few days in a Mediterranean city. But it's possible that they may have been on to something, bitter and judgmental as I was. Maybe not the route I would typically take all the time, but in this situation, it is quite relaxing to simply just be. Lazing by a pool, reading books, having a beer, etc. I think tomorrow we might go hiking in nearby Red Rocks State Park, which I'm excited for. If there's one thing I learned from M and C, Bill Bryson, and the English people, it's the value of walking in the countryside.
It's nice to be a gentleman of leisure, if only for a week. A trip to the Grand Canyon here, a day spent in Flagstaff there, possibly a jeep tour, plenty of time outside, some exercise, some unnecessary spending (this place is so fucking expensive). You know, the usual.
I'm officially in Sedona, Arizona, a land of bizarre rock formations and unrelenting desert heat. It's the sort of landscape where I look outside and half expect to see Wily E. Coyote chasing the roadrunner with an ACME rocket strapped to his ass. The land you envision yourself on when you take that great American road trip that you never seem to get around to. A land full of winding roads that snake through red rock canyons, an endless blue sky enfolding around you. Nothing but yourself, your Chevrolet, and the open road spreading into infinity, daring to tread upon nature's splendour. And if you're in Sedona, a maze of art galleries far beyond your budget, expensive eateries, tour companies, and the same sort of cheap t-shirt and souvenir shops you find in every American tourist destination. There has to be some sort of conglomerate that owns these places, selling shirts that say stuff like "The Man, The Legend," with arrows pointing up and down to correspond with the apparent truths. However, any establishment that sells beautiful, new, half priced Minnetonka moccasins is pretty alright in my book. To drop the cynicism of tourist culture though, this place is stunningly and quite unbelievably beautiful. It's my first time to the southwest, to this great American dreamland, and I am not disappointed.
I am not the sort of traveler used to having excessive downtime. In traveling Europe, I tended to exasperate a few of my companions, always needing to be on the move or going to see a new museum or monument. I remember silently judging a friend for what I deemed an unproductive few days in a Mediterranean city. But it's possible that they may have been on to something, bitter and judgmental as I was. Maybe not the route I would typically take all the time, but in this situation, it is quite relaxing to simply just be. Lazing by a pool, reading books, having a beer, etc. I think tomorrow we might go hiking in nearby Red Rocks State Park, which I'm excited for. If there's one thing I learned from M and C, Bill Bryson, and the English people, it's the value of walking in the countryside.
It's nice to be a gentleman of leisure, if only for a week. A trip to the Grand Canyon here, a day spent in Flagstaff there, possibly a jeep tour, plenty of time outside, some exercise, some unnecessary spending (this place is so fucking expensive). You know, the usual.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Album of the Week: Revolver
Hey folks, welcome to a fun new pseudo-weekly feature! Each week (or more accurately, whenever I feel like it), I'm going to post a recommended album of the week for your aural enjoyment. This week's selection is Revolver by the Beatles.
Previous to my miraculous discovery of this CD at Half Price Books in Apple Valley, I must say that I half heartedly viewed the Beatles. I expected such a universally revered band to have something important to say to me. I had purchased Sgt. Pepper, expecting to be blown away, but ended up being confused. Everything seemed disjointed, I could really only get into a few of the songs. The Beatles seemed one of those required bands that pretentious music snobs like myself must enjoy in order to be taken seriously. But I must admit, I faked it. I dutifully pasted them into my favourites on facebook, did the little jig, yada, yada, yada. But in my heart, I felt John Lennon's voice was only slightly more pleasurable than a chainsaw, and the forays into Indian music were only slightly more successful than the current invasion of Iraq.
However, this week's pick gave me a complete about face. Changing my life, actually. Even George Harrison's explorations into Indian music, they don't bother me. In fact, I increasingly enjoy them. I would classify Revolver as a much more accessible introduction to some of the Beatle's heavier fare than Sgt. Pepper. I mean, it's esosteric, but not so esosteric as to just weird you out. I guess, I compare pop music today to this, and it freaks me right out. Highly recommended. Some of the chords in the vocal parts are simply amazing, and the melodies are pure and musical. God knows what these dudes were smoking, injecting, or snorting at the time of recording, but who cares. It's beautiful music. My personal favourites:
I'm Only Sleeping
Eleanor Rigby (fun fact, this is the first song with a string quartet to reach No. 1)
Good Day Sunshine
Doctor Robert (supposedly this song is about John Lennon's dealer)
In other fun musical news, I got tickets to Sigur Rós in September. Literally freaking right out. Can. Not. Wait.
Previous to my miraculous discovery of this CD at Half Price Books in Apple Valley, I must say that I half heartedly viewed the Beatles. I expected such a universally revered band to have something important to say to me. I had purchased Sgt. Pepper, expecting to be blown away, but ended up being confused. Everything seemed disjointed, I could really only get into a few of the songs. The Beatles seemed one of those required bands that pretentious music snobs like myself must enjoy in order to be taken seriously. But I must admit, I faked it. I dutifully pasted them into my favourites on facebook, did the little jig, yada, yada, yada. But in my heart, I felt John Lennon's voice was only slightly more pleasurable than a chainsaw, and the forays into Indian music were only slightly more successful than the current invasion of Iraq.
However, this week's pick gave me a complete about face. Changing my life, actually. Even George Harrison's explorations into Indian music, they don't bother me. In fact, I increasingly enjoy them. I would classify Revolver as a much more accessible introduction to some of the Beatle's heavier fare than Sgt. Pepper. I mean, it's esosteric, but not so esosteric as to just weird you out. I guess, I compare pop music today to this, and it freaks me right out. Highly recommended. Some of the chords in the vocal parts are simply amazing, and the melodies are pure and musical. God knows what these dudes were smoking, injecting, or snorting at the time of recording, but who cares. It's beautiful music. My personal favourites:
I'm Only Sleeping
Eleanor Rigby (fun fact, this is the first song with a string quartet to reach No. 1)
Good Day Sunshine
Doctor Robert (supposedly this song is about John Lennon's dealer)
In other fun musical news, I got tickets to Sigur Rós in September. Literally freaking right out. Can. Not. Wait.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Beyond the Dune Sea
I got quite the surprise as I picked up the mail today at 10:45 at night. My mom does not share my insistence on timely mail pick up. I have been anticipating an order from Amazon, with the new Sigur Rós CD and some Miles Davis (Coincidentally, Sigur Rós is playing in Minneapolis on Sep. 25th. Anyone up?). Anyways, the package I got was not from Amazon. Rather, it was an envelope from 23 Haslemere Rd, Nottingham NG8 5GH.
I stared mystified in the moonlight at the brown envelope, stupified that such an object from my past would end up in my hands again. It was just so bizarre, to see the Royal Mail insignia and the little blue "Par Avion" stickers all over. It seemed almost otherworldly. In a way, it was wrong, a cruel joke to have this item land in my mailbox. Anyways, I fought the emotional conflict and came back inside. With great curiosity I opened the envelope up, only to find another envelope inside, addressed to me from my mom. Once again, it was so strange, to see my name listed at the address of 67 Homefield Rd. Inside the envelope was a ragged old Twins hat, worn by years of abuse, sweat, and dirt. The red "M" was faded more into a pastel. The post office mark from Apple Valley dated it as leaving on March 9th, 2007. There was a letter from my mom, saying that she hoped my hat got there quicker than my iPod. I can't for the life of me recollect anything about it. I had a Twins hat at the time, I didn't lose it until I left it on that bus in Avignon nearly a month later. I must have wanted it for baseball training or something.
I never thought I'd ever get another package from Nottingham, so I'm still kind of surprised. Honestly, it was sort of jolting, a tangible reminder of an experience that at times seems so intangible. Sure, I have thousands of photos to document that I indeed lived there, I have letters addressed to me, trinkets that I brought back. Every once in a while, there's even some contact with old friends. But the vast majority of what connects me to Nottingham is internal, in my heart and brain. A windstorm of visuals, fleeting images, reserves of feelings and emotions that break out every once in a while, but are mostly kept distant. Certainly from other people, but sometimes even from myself. In reality, only 8 other people in the whole world can truly relate, and even sometimes I wonder if that number is lower.
All I know is that opening that package suddenly put me walking, down Nuthall Road, possibly towards John and Margaret's or Thirsty Boozers. Maybe I was going to take a right and head down towards The Lion, watching out for the passing tram and questionable chavs drinking Stella and listening to their music phones. Waiting impatiently for the crosswalk to change, hearing that God-awful beeping noise, wondering why I never stopped in that cob shop. Probably wearing jeans, cross training shoes, a checked shirt and a blue waffle-knit pullover, perhaps a black messenger bag in tow. Surely there was a Twins or Nottingham Thieves hat perched lazily on my head. Polishing my nerdy-ass glasses in the end of my shirt as I walked. Walking, always walking everywhere. There was no alternative, unless I wanted to wait for the bus or ride an inadequate bike. I remember how I stopped on the rail bridge on Wilkinson Street; I used to enjoy seeing the sunset as I came home from a trip to the city centre. Brilliant reds and oranges fading into the distance, Hucknall lay somewhere out there. With an internal smile, I turned and walked up Shipstone St. to The Lion, hopefully to meet a few other members of my family, maybe say hi to David. Settle down at a worn table with a pint of real ale, trying to disregard the sonic abuse emanating from amateur night. An evening among friends.
Simple pleasures, like reminiscing about home.
I stared mystified in the moonlight at the brown envelope, stupified that such an object from my past would end up in my hands again. It was just so bizarre, to see the Royal Mail insignia and the little blue "Par Avion" stickers all over. It seemed almost otherworldly. In a way, it was wrong, a cruel joke to have this item land in my mailbox. Anyways, I fought the emotional conflict and came back inside. With great curiosity I opened the envelope up, only to find another envelope inside, addressed to me from my mom. Once again, it was so strange, to see my name listed at the address of 67 Homefield Rd. Inside the envelope was a ragged old Twins hat, worn by years of abuse, sweat, and dirt. The red "M" was faded more into a pastel. The post office mark from Apple Valley dated it as leaving on March 9th, 2007. There was a letter from my mom, saying that she hoped my hat got there quicker than my iPod. I can't for the life of me recollect anything about it. I had a Twins hat at the time, I didn't lose it until I left it on that bus in Avignon nearly a month later. I must have wanted it for baseball training or something.
I never thought I'd ever get another package from Nottingham, so I'm still kind of surprised. Honestly, it was sort of jolting, a tangible reminder of an experience that at times seems so intangible. Sure, I have thousands of photos to document that I indeed lived there, I have letters addressed to me, trinkets that I brought back. Every once in a while, there's even some contact with old friends. But the vast majority of what connects me to Nottingham is internal, in my heart and brain. A windstorm of visuals, fleeting images, reserves of feelings and emotions that break out every once in a while, but are mostly kept distant. Certainly from other people, but sometimes even from myself. In reality, only 8 other people in the whole world can truly relate, and even sometimes I wonder if that number is lower.
All I know is that opening that package suddenly put me walking, down Nuthall Road, possibly towards John and Margaret's or Thirsty Boozers. Maybe I was going to take a right and head down towards The Lion, watching out for the passing tram and questionable chavs drinking Stella and listening to their music phones. Waiting impatiently for the crosswalk to change, hearing that God-awful beeping noise, wondering why I never stopped in that cob shop. Probably wearing jeans, cross training shoes, a checked shirt and a blue waffle-knit pullover, perhaps a black messenger bag in tow. Surely there was a Twins or Nottingham Thieves hat perched lazily on my head. Polishing my nerdy-ass glasses in the end of my shirt as I walked. Walking, always walking everywhere. There was no alternative, unless I wanted to wait for the bus or ride an inadequate bike. I remember how I stopped on the rail bridge on Wilkinson Street; I used to enjoy seeing the sunset as I came home from a trip to the city centre. Brilliant reds and oranges fading into the distance, Hucknall lay somewhere out there. With an internal smile, I turned and walked up Shipstone St. to The Lion, hopefully to meet a few other members of my family, maybe say hi to David. Settle down at a worn table with a pint of real ale, trying to disregard the sonic abuse emanating from amateur night. An evening among friends.
Simple pleasures, like reminiscing about home.
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